Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?
by Lil Gold Fishie
Summary: What if Voldemort vanished, but everyone thougth Harry was dead? I suck at summaries...
1. And So It Begins

A small whimper pulled her out of her slumber. She opened her emerald green eyes, dull with sleep, and lifted her head up a little off her husband's chest and listened. There. The distinct sound of a small child crying.  
  
Sighing she got out of bed carefully, so as to not wake her husband. Slipping into her slippers, she crept out of the room, across the hallway, and into the blue-and-white decorated room of her son.  
  
She strode over to the crib and lifted her son out carefully. "Shh, now," she whispered soothingly, rubbing his back gently. He kept right on crying. So she started to hum a simple melody. It was the lullaby her mother used to sing to her when she was a child. She hummed softly and walked around the room, still rubbing his back gently. Soon, the child's crying ceased and soon fell asleep right in his mother's arms. She smiled to herself.  
  
"You're so beautiful," she murmured softly. She felt a hand on her shoulder and saw her messy-haired love standing beside her.  
  
"Hey, love," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "He at it again?"  
  
"Yes," she smiled. "I suppose the gala tonight was too much for him."  
  
"We had fun, though," he said, putting his arms around her waist. They looked quite a picture, a woman standing there with her child in her arms, while she was in her own husband's arms as well. A comfortable silence elapsed.  
  
"We're so lucky," whispered the man suddenly, placing his chin on the woman's head. She nodded slightly, smiling again.  
  
"Yes, we most certainly are. I don't know if I'll ever want to let him go," she said in a low voice, as to not wake her sleeping son. She brushed a strand of delicate black hair out of her baby's closed eyes. It was soft, like silk, and it made her want to stroke her child's head again and again. She supposed it would be more like her husband's, though, when became older. Her husband's soft voice interrupted her daydream.  
  
"Come on love, we better get some rest after all that dancing tonight. I've got work tomorrow."  
  
The woman sighed. "You're right. You go ahead, I'll put him to bed."  
  
The man nodded and turned. He was barely out the door when a loud crash interrupted the silence of the night. They both jumped, and the woman heard voices outside. She ran to the window, her baby still in her arms, and gasped when she saw a dozen figures in black cloaks milling around in their front yard.  
  
"They've found us!" she breathed, turning to her husband in fright. His eyes widened, but then became serious. He went over to his newly wed wife and grasped her shoulders firmly. He spoke quickly and firmly, but his voice shook.  
  
"Honey, I want you to send him away somewhere safe, and fast. I'll go down and try to stall them. This may be our doom, but at least our son may live."  
  
The woman's eyes filled with tears, but nodded and kissed her husband quickly. He then rushed out, grabbing something from the counter in the hallway and rushed downstairs. Meanwhile, the woman quickly wrapped her son in a blanket, writing hurriedly a note and shoving it among them. The placed her son in a baby basket and pulled out what looked like a stick from the pocket of her pajama bottoms, where she always kept it at night, in case of emergency. There were several bangs and yells from the floor below, so she worked quickly. She muttered a few well-chosen words, and the basket levitated into the air. Just then, she heard a yell.  
  
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll stop him . . ." But there was a loud scream of pain, and she started sobbing, recognizing the cry to be her beloved. She was saying another few words when the door behind her burst open and a hooded figure in a black cloak entered the room. They were all dressed the same, but she knew who he was.  
  
"Move aside." The figure spoke in a low hiss.  
  
"No, you shall not hurt him!" she said, moving right in front of her son protectively.  
  
But this did not suit the cloaked imposter well. With a loud bang, she was thrown against the wall by an invisible force, and slumped down to the floor when her head cracked on the wall. She opened her eyes, and to her horror she saw the figure moving toward her child. "No!" she cried, gathering her remaining strength and jumping up, collapsing in front of the basket. "Not Harry, not Harry, I beg you, not Harry . . ."  
  
"Move aside, fool, you are no match for me . . . move, now."  
  
"No, not Harry, please, take me, kill me instead of him . . ." but the figure was advancing towards them, pointing a wooden stick threateningly. "Please," she continued to plead. "I beg you . . . have mercy, please . . . take me instead . . ."  
  
The man laughed, a cold, cruel laugh that made her blood churn. He pointed the stick swiftly towards her, still laughing like a madman. There was a flash of green light, and the woman screamed . . . and then . . .  
  
Silence.  
  
The figure, turned to the child, now awake due to all the commotion. Smiling cruelly, he aimed the stick at the baby, and muttered a few words.  
  
There was another flash of bright green light, but instead of the child screaming, like he anticipated, the being under the cloak felt a pain over coming him. It was taking over him, and he yelled half in pain, half in outrage. The man simply disappeared, black robes slumping into a puddle on the ground. The baby was now also crying, not knowing why his head hurt so much. He wanted his mother. But before he could cry out the way he always did when he wanted his mommy, he felt his basket starting to move. It flew across the room and straight out the open window, with curtains billowing around it in the wind. Almost immediately after the basket exited, the house burst into flame. But the pain in his head was too much; the last thing he heard before falling asleep were shouts and yells in the street below, where a large number of grown-ups were.  
  
The darkness took him . . .  
  
His head hurt . . .  
  
Ten years later, a boy with messy black hair and emerald green eyes suddenly woke up with a start, clutching his forehead in pain.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hey everyone, this is my second Harry Potter fic. I bet everyone reading this knows what this was all about . . . but yeah, it's gonna be WAY different from the book. Yeah . . . and the title of this fic is lame, I know, but whatever . . it will reveal its meaning and stuff in future chapters. That is . . . only if people review! Reviews encourage me! ^_^  
  
So ya, review time! I accept flames and all that, but don't be too harsh ^_^. C'mon click that button down there . . . you know you WAAAAAANN it . . . (hehe gotta love them cheesewhiz commercials!!) 


	2. The Letter

"Harry? Harry, are you alright?"  
  
He winced a little and squeezed his eyes shut, still clutching his forehead. After the pain had passed, he said, "Yeah, I'm okay."  
  
A woman in about her mid-thirties sighed with relief. "Another nightmare?"  
  
He nodded. "Yeah, but my scar has never hurt this much before – "  
  
"Never mind your scar," whispered the woman. "Vernon will be down in a minute, you know how he hates to have his breakfast unmade before he comes down."  
  
Harry sighed. "You're right, I guess." The woman started to walk away from his cupboard. "Aunt Petunia?" he called suddenly. She stopped and turned around.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
She smiled and walked back to the kitchen. Then, "Potter! Get over here and make breakfast!" she screeched.  
  
Stretching, Harry crawled out of his cupboard and walked down the hallway to the kitchen. He and Petunia had this little game, you see. She would pretend to be mean to him, and he would pretend to despise her. But truly, she loved Harry like a second son, and Harry regarded her like a mother – almost. His parents died in a car crash when he was very young, Vernon had told him, and that's where he got his scar. Aunt Petunia had always stiffened when the subject was brought up, which wasn't often, but you could tell that her sister's death had affected her greatly, hard as she tried to hide it. Vernon would be furious if he knew that Petunia really loved her sister, and was not ashamed to be related to her, or to Harry. To Vernon, Harry was a 'low piece of scum' that had to live in their house. Whenever people came over, he was forced to stay in his cupboard and to pretend he didn't exist, even though he had better manners than Dudley could ever hope to have. Dudley was Petunia and Vernon's son, and though Petunia was sympathetic for how Dudley treated Harry, she was useless to stop him from being beat up, or from being picked on at school. Harry was always picked on at school, because Dudley and his little gang of snobby boys were the most popular in school. Since Dudley hated Harry, no one would dare to be nice to him or to stick up for him. But Petunia, as helpless as she was, always tried to fix Harry up when Vernon and Dudley weren't around, or slipped him some Advils in a baggie under his door. Harry really loved Aunt Petunia for that.  
  
In the kitchen, Petunia already had the stove going for Harry, so that he could start making the bacon and the eggs. He gave a nod of thanks and a silent smile, which she returned, and he went over to the coffee machine to start brewing the coffee.  
  
The bacon was just about finished when Vernon came down in his sharp business suit. The eggs were already on a plate for him, along with two slices of toast, and Harry hurried to put the sizzling bacon onto his plate as well. "Bring me the mail and my coffee, boy," he said tonelessly.  
  
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," answered Harry immediately, pouring the hot liquid into a mug, bringing it to the table and rushing to get the mail. But when he got there . . .  
  
A letter from Aunt Marge, advertisements, newspaper, a letter for H. Potter, an official-looking letter from Vernon's work . . . hold on . . .  
  
Harry's eyes widened. A letter for *H. Potter*? For Harry? Him? Harry had never received a letter in his life. Who would want to write to him? And why?  
  
"What's taking so long, boy?"  
  
Vernon's shout snapped him out of his thoughts, and he hurried back to the kitchen. Before he opened the door, he stopped. Uncle Vernon would surely take the letter away from him, wouldn't he? Of course he would. So Harry took a few steps back and slid the letter under the door to his cupboard, then kept on walking to the kitchen.  
  
"What took you?" snapped Aunt Petunia. She was only pretending of course, and that thought comforted Harry.  
  
"Some of the letters were stuck together. Sorry," he said, handing Vernon the mail. Vernon narrowed his eyes, and took them without a word. Harry ate his small portion of breakfast quickly, then strode back to his cupboard casually. Once inside, he sat on his mattress and grabbed the letter from the ground. He held it in his hands for a moment, then stuffed it inside one of his cheap, second-hand books. He should wait until Uncle Vernon went to work before opening it. What if he caught him reading it? He sighed and lay back on his mattress, staring at the slanted ceiling of his cupboard.  
  
Why does he dwell in a cupboard, you ask? There's a spare bedroom upstairs, but Dudley uses it to keep all of his broken toys in. Why doesn't he clear it out? For one thing, he's too lazy; clicking on the buttons on his PlayStation2 is considered a hard workout for him. He resembles a human-colored pig with blonde hair. Oh, how Harry longed to call him Piggy, just once. But he knew that if he did, Dudley would tell his dad, and then Harry would get it. Hard.  
  
For Vernon Dursley is a quite violent man. He beats Harry, kicks him around, and even tried to strangle him once. He never does this when Petunia or Dudley were around, though Petunia knew about it. This is why Harry was afraid of staying home alone, like he was today, in fear that Vernon would come home early and beat the shit out of him. Vernon's aggressive personality is also why Harry never questions him.  
  
So he wouldn't dare ask for the spare bedroom.  
  
Harry sighed again. He looked around his cupboard space, at his few belongings. They consisted only of a few books, his clothes folded neatly in the small chest of drawers (with only two drawers), and a single shelf with Harry's few toys (mostly old McDonald's toys that Dudley left around after he broke them). He closed his eyes miserably.  
  
"Life sucks," he muttered under his breath.  
  
Suddenly he stiffened when he heard heavy footsteps on the other side of the wall, along with quiet good-byes from Petunia and Dudley, who had thundered down the stairs earlier, leaving Harry to lie in a thin pile of sawdust. Not that he cared. Soon, Dudley left as well, to go hang out with his rat-faced friends to go egg houses or something, probably. After they were gone, he took his letter out of its hiding place and got out of his cupboard.  
  
"Aunt Petunia?" he called softly, just in case.  
  
"Yes dear, I'm right here," she called pleasantly, and Harry could see her figure on through the semi-transparent door to the kitchen. He walked in, clutching his letter so that it became slightly crumpled.  
  
"I, er, got a letter . . ."  
  
Petunia nearly dropped her cup of tea. She stared at Harry for a moment, then held her hand out and said in a voice dripping with forced cheerfulness, "Well, let's see it then."  
  
Harry handed the letter over wordlessly and went to Petunia's side. She turned the letter over and saw the seal: a lion, a serpent, what looked like a badger, and a raven around a prominent letter 'H.' Petunia Dursley raised her head and looked at Harry with wide eyes. Harry stared back.  
  
"What?"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Ooh, cliffie!! But again, you guys prolly know what it is ... *shrugs* Oh well. Review anyway! It'll get better, I promise! I would write longer chapters, but the first one was three pages long and I wanted to make it even ... but whatever, if you guys want longer chapters then just tell me. The first few chappies are just kinda 'introductory,' y'know what I mean? Eh, who cares. The plot will unfold soon. Drop me a review will you? ^_^  
  
Tbc ... 


End file.
